


cities have been destroyed over simple miscommunication

by whalers



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mute Corvo Attano, Unconventional Relationship, hard of hearing character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 13:34:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12607768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalers/pseuds/whalers
Summary: Corvo is not a special boy. He is just a boy. He sits on his mother’s lap and listens carefully to her stories. He plays with his sister. He plays with the other children in the streets and joins them in the childish dares and games that sometimes turn a little too dangerous. He watches his mother cook, he watches his sister watch the sea. He does his studies, as much as a poor child living in Serkonos can. He learns how to hold his own in a fight.And sometimes, at night, he peers into the little bit of special, tempered glass that he found under his bed and a boy with dark eyes gazes back at him.; in which the outsider decides to visit corvo before he even gets to dunwall, but things don't go as planned, as the universe tends to do.





	cities have been destroyed over simple miscommunication

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devilq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilq/gifts).



> hey! this is for my dear buddy. a thank you fic for all the stuff he's written for me.

Corvo is not a special boy. He is just a boy. He sits on his mother’s lap and listens carefully to her stories. He plays with his sister. He plays with the other children in the streets and joins them in the childish dares and games that sometimes turn a little too dangerous and he goes home with a black eye or a bloody lip or stings from bloodflies. He watches his mother cook, he watches his sister watch the sea. He does his studies, as much as a poor child living in Serkonos can. He learns how to hold his own in a fight.

And sometimes, at night, he peers into the little bit of special, tempered glass that he found under his bed and a boy with dark eyes gazes back at him.

 

* * *

  

The boy has always been there, for as long as Corvo can remember. He doesn’t say anything. He rarely, if ever, smiles. But he watches. And he teaches. He teaches Corvo how to make signing smoother, because he cannot and could never speak and relies on the language of hands to communicate. He teaches Corvo how to study lips and eyes so he doesn’t have to rely so heavily on the sounds of the world that seem to grow just a bit duller every year. He never speaks a word, but instead signs right along with him. Corvo appreciates it. The boy is a ghost, he reasons, laying on his bed one afternoon. The boy is a ghost of someone who’s lived in this apartment before. Or maybe, he muses with a smile, almost laughing at such a silly thought, the glass is a window into the void, and Corvo is communicating with some strange entity from there.

It’s such a silly thought. Corvo doesn’t even believe in the Outsider. He knows there is magic in the world; he isn’t stupid, he _sees_ , he watches, just like the boy’s taught him, and he can see how the cobbled bits of bones and metal are pieced together to make talismans that grant a little extra protection to the wearer, or a little extra strength, luck, wit, anything and everything. But only in moderation, and it doesn’t work for everyone. There’s always talk of witches, of people who have lost their minds to the very creature they’ve been worshipping.

Corvo doesn’t believe in that big deity that the Abbey warns against. The boy is just a spirit, a companion. Corvo enjoys his company, and he knows better than to mention it to anyone. Still, he can’t help but wonder why his companion picked this shard of glass to visit him through, instead of something bigger, like the oval mirror in his room, or water, or any other bigger reflective surface.

He asks as much; _Why do you only show yourself through this thing? I have a bigger mirror in my room._

His companion gives him an amused smile. _That would make it less special._

 

* * *

 

Corvo is eighteen. His hands are calloused and bruised and bloody, his legs tremble with shock, excitement, pride; too many emotions for him to pin down. The Blade Verbena is his and now him, a disheveled, poor young man from the slums of Karnaca has a place in the Grand Guard. He goes home that day, new uniform bundled in his arms, a proper sword at his hip, feeling lightheaded.

He tells his mother, his fingers feeling clumsy and too big as he signs the words, but she understands all the same and throws her warm brown arms around him and holds him close to her chest. She tells him how proud she is, through the tears of joy that run down her cheeks. He is crying too, though he doesn’t quite understand why. His throat is scratchy and hot and he _hates_ crying but he isn’t sad, he can’t find any sadness in the mess of emotions muddling his head.

Corvo drags himself to his room later, when the sun has dipped under the horizon and he’s cried out all his emotions onto his mother’s shoulder. Tears of joy and apprehension and excitement and fear. That’s what his mother had told him. Corvo accepts it. He gives one last glance at the shiny trophy sitting on the shelf in the living room, then closes the door to his room behind him. He slumps against the door and exhales shakily, pressing his fingers hard against his eyes until he sees stars, sees the pale face of a young man gazing back at him.

Corvo startles and drops his hand to his side. There is no one his room. Beatrici is off again and his mother is in the living room and--

Oh.

He sits on the bed, the blankets old and worn under his fingertips. He reaches under the bed and moves his hand along the dusty floor until his fingers brush against the cool glass shard. He picks it up, turning it over and over in his hands. He holds it up, the light of the moon glinting against the glass. And the boy who is now a young man appears, as he is wont to do. As he does most days. And he smiles, all teeth and deep black eyes. Corvo gives a weary smile back. This is his dearest companion (the near kisses they share are something he holds fondly in his heart).

The man speaks now, though his words are often cryptic. It’s very peculiar; Corvo doesn’t all the way understand it. He hears the man’s voice echoing around him, as a whisper in his ears, as a voice speaking directly in his mind. It is very strange and contradicting and Corvo almost yearns for the days when the man would simply sign at him, their silent conversation something special. Though he can hear the man more clear than he’s ever heard anything in his life, it’s different. It doesn’t feel quite as special.

“Your life will only become more exciting as the weeks go by, my dear Corvo,” the man almost coos. “I am so interested to see which paths you choose, which roads you will walk down.”

Corvo lays back on the bed, gazing at the man with eyes heavy from exhaustion. _It is as much of a mystery to me as it is to you._

The man grins wider, then vanishes. He will be back, Corvo knows. He believes strongly in this fact. The man is a constant in his life, one of the few he has. He tucks the glass safely under his pillow and lets sleep take him. In the days to come, he won’t have very much time to sleep. He has a feeling something very big is looming over the horizon, and he doesn’t even need his companion to tell him that.

 

* * *

 

Dunwall is an entirely different world. The two weeks on the ship were filled with nothing but anxieties eating away at his stomach and that awkward, stilted way he address the Emperor and his protectors. The only respites being the times he spent in his cabin, cradling the glass in his hands and mouthing wordless pleas to his companion and pressing awkward kisses against the glass (which he hastily wipes away when it smudges). And now he is here, in a gloomy city without a familiar face in sight. His family is so many miles away, his mother… oh, he misses her dearly. He misses the warm sun and the laughter of children in the streets and the smells of fish cooking on open fires, of spices and fruits and vegetables being sold just a few streets away, even the distant buzzing of the bloodflies. Dunwall is all harsh, imposing buildings, of elegance and stiffness and so, so many rules to learn, so many classes he has to sit through, so much he has to memorize. His head swims with all the information being stuffed into it.

His companion drops an encouragement every so often, accepts and gives a kiss here and there, but it is not enough, and his companion doesn’t visit nearly as much as he did before. Perhaps this lavish new life isn’t very interesting to the otherworldly entity. Perhaps Corvo has walked down the wrong path… But this feels right. He is capable. He is a strong fighter and continues, as the days and the weeks and months and the years go on, to prove his worth. He is worthy of his title as Royal Protector to Lady Jessamine Kaldwin. He is told as much, and he tries to believe it during those moments of uncertainty and fear and homesickness. During the days when the nobles side glance him, those judging eyes taking in his complexion, his always slightly disheveled appearance. When they barely hide their sneers. When they speak just low enough that he can’t understand them, holding their fans in front of their mouths so he can’t even pick out their words from lip reading. And especially, when he catches them questioning Jessamine on her choice of Royal Protector. A foreigner who cannot speak even a single word, from a land of merchants and whores. Definitely the wrong choice for the future Empress. It makes Corvo’s heart drop to his stomach. During those moments, it is very hard to keep his head high and not stop to once again question Lady Jessamine on her decision.

He finds himself asking his companion late some nights, but his companion always responds with the same thing: “It is a near constant. There are very few universes in which this does not occur.”

Corvo finds that hard to wrap his head around. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, he wishes his companion could be here physically, so he can wrap his arms around his lean frame and hold tightly. When he mentions it (because he has, when in a particularly low mood or spurred on by alcohol), his companion only gives him that same emotionless smile. Though sometimes, Corvo thinks, it looks a bit sad.

 

* * *

 

Jessamine is beautiful. The most beautiful woman he has ever met. And she is so far out of his league that he still finds himself shocked that she adores him as much as he adores her. They spend as much time together has they can without arousing too much suspicion. Jessamine is a special one, he’s come to understand from the years of being right by her side in nearly every waking moment.

She is a pacifist; refusing to punish the nobles too harshly when they step out of line. She cares deeply for the people of Dunwall, of Gristol as a whole, and even the rest of the isles, though she has never been very far from her fortified palace. She has the sweetest voice he has ever heard, and he only wishes his ears did their job properly, so he could hear every word that passes her lips. She is understanding, she is accommodating. She is not perfect, she has her flaws. Sometimes the weight of her position weighs so heavily on her shoulders that she collapses into his arms, crying hard against his chest in frustration. Jessamine wants so much for her people. She wants her empire to be a happy one. She wants her late father to be proud of her accomplishments.

Corvo helps her in every way he can. He wants the love of his life to be as happy as possible.

 _She is something else entirely_ , he signs to his companion, who has almost stopped visiting him altogether. Corvo doesn’t understand why. He has asked more than once but his companion never deigns to give him an answer, which is frustrating, and hurtful, but what can he do? His companion must have found someone much more exciting to visit, if he visits anyone else at all. _What do you think of her?_

“I think,” his companion says, words devoid of emotion, his face unreadable. “That you should watch yourself. This road is only paved with hardships.”

 _I’m aware. But we’re careful. We’re making it work, I think._ Corvo feels very strongly that this is true. His companion doesn’t answer. He just watches him impassively as Corvo fills out his papers and straightens out his clothes for the next day.

Then he leaves. Corvo does not see his companion for many more years. He is left wondering if he’s said or done something wrong to land in such bad favor with the one person who’s been such a constant in his life. It hurts, a sharp pain that follows him always, eventually fades enough that he can ignore it if he doesn’t think about it at all, if he hides the glass and tries to pretend it never existed. Jessamine notices but he has never told anyone of his secret companion, and he can’t think of any way to tell her that wouldn’t make him sound as though he’s losing his mind, or turned to the Outsider (which is such a huge thing in this city, it’s almost exhausting to hear about the constant goings on of the Abbey). He doesn’t think Jessamine would mind all that much if he truly was mingling with the Outsider, but that isn’t what’s happening here. His companion is (was?) just that; a companion. Some spirit that communicated with him when he pleased.

He continues with his life. He protects Jessamine. He cries when Emily is born. He loves his unconventional family so much, more than he can ever remember loving anyone. And if sometimes his thoughts linger to his absent companion and the worn piece of glass tucked safely into the chest in his room, his heart thumping painfully in his chest at the memories and the confusion, then no one is the wiser.

 

* * *

 

Corvo can’t stop seeing her blood on his hands.

They throw him in Coldridge, trying for months to torture a confession out of him that will never come (even if they could, they always bind his hands. how can he talk without his hands?). The wrong place at the wrong time, they tell him. No hard feelings, they tell him with sneers on their faces, hatred and triumph in their eyes. _Why_ , he wants to ask. Why have her killed? Jessamine deserved it least of all. And Emily, only a child, being held somewhere far out of his reach, scared, maybe even hurt. What are they doing to her? What is his life now? What is he good for? He’s failed. Failed as a Royal Protector, as a lover, as a father. He has nothing now. He is nothing now.

Coldridge is brutal. It strips him of everything. There is no hope in the high, imposing walls of the prison. The cold and the never ending hunger and the beatings all take a toll on his very spirit, until he is not sure he’s even fully a person anymore.

Every snide remark from a guard about him murdering Jessamine sends a dagger to his heart.

He doesn’t believe it when a key is slipped in with his morning meal. The guard says something he doesn’t fully register, and then he is gone, and Corvo is standing outside his prison cell, blade in hand, and anger and disbelief and grief and sorrow and a whole lot of everything and nothing in his heart.

He slips out of prison like a shadow. He steals every stray coin and bit of food (it doesn’t fill him, even when he’s eaten more than his stomach can take and he feels sick, he still feels the claws of hunger and he isn’t sure why) he can get his hands on. No one even realizes he’s gone until the explosion, and even then it takes a while before he hears his name being announced over the loudspeakers. _The assassin Corvo Attano, murderer of our fair Empress, has escaped state custody._ He doesn’t look back. He jumps into the waters and before he swims to the surface he thinks he sees dark eyes gazing at him, feral teeth grinning at him.

He pushes onwards and does not even think to rest until he is in Samuel’s boat.

 

* * *

 

That night, after the Loyalists have introduced themselves (with difficulty), after he’s vomited everything he’s eaten and given plain broth and medicine and bandages by Lydia, after he’s scrubbed himself raw (he still feels so _dirty_ , he still sees her blood on his hands, feels it under his nails, in the creases in his hands, seeping inside his body until he is suffocating, drowning with the sorrow of it all), he holes himself in his room and falls onto the bed with a shaky sob. The door is locked and no one can enter this room. He’s _safe_ , for all he can be, being an escaped convict, and he is among allies, people who truly believe he didn’t kill Jessamine.

It doesn’t feel real, even now. He knows it is, but it is so hard to believe. He doesn’t feel safe and doesn’t believe he ever truly will.

He cries himself into an uneasy sleep.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes, everything feels slightly off. As if someone took the world, shook it around, then placed it back where it’s supposed to be. Corvo sits up in bed, follows the sound of rushing water, and the world as he knows it falls away. His door is gone and there are stones steps leading up. _A dream_ , he tells himself as he ascends the stairs. _It has to be a dream_. Never mind that he’s certain he’s seen this upside-down place before, the blues and purples of this world offering both comfort and unease. And then he is frozen in his tracks and the one person who was once a close companion materializes before his eyes, and gives him that familiar smile that holds so much and nothing at all.

“Hello, Corvo. Your life has taken a turn, has it not?”

It is the same voice, those same black eyes, that same pale face, the same _everything_ , and Corvo feels his mind reeling. He does not understand. He cannot understand. His eyes widen, then narrow, and he clenches his jaw, but he still cannot move his hands, so he cannot speak. It is his old companion (is he even that anymore? what _is_ he and _what is this?_ ).

“The Empress is dead, her precious daughter Emily is lost somewhere in the city, and you will play a pivotal role in the days to come. For this, I have chosen you, and drawn you into the void. I am the Outsider and this is my Mark.” He sounds almost proud of himself.

Corvo’s hand blossoms in a burning pain and he finds he can move again, his arm jerking, watching with a vague sense of horror as the Mark appears on his hand. He has seen this symbol before, in passing, along with all the other signs and symbols of the Outsider, in pamphlets and posters that the Abbey distributes. Corvo tears his gaze away from his burning hand that feels heavy and tingly, staring straight into his companion’s-- into the Outsider’s eyes. His face is like a mask. He doesn’t offer anything, not a smile, not even a quirked eyebrow. His face might as well be carved from stone.

The Outsider goes on to explain the Mark, what is now open to him (so much, there is _so_ much he can do and his mind is piecing it together before the Outsider even finishes his speech), but Corvo doesn’t respond. A second ago, there were so many questions waiting at his fingertips, but now… there is nothing. He stares blankly at the Outsider as he beckons Corvo to come find him, disappearing as suddenly as he appeared.

Corvo stands there, on a floating rock in the middle of the void, staring at the empty spot the Outsider had just stood, staring at the mark on his hand. He clenches his fist experimentally and is pulled a few feet ahead. He gasps, startled, too many thoughts of everything and anything and nothing slamming themselves inside his head. He takes a deep breath and clenches his fist again, landing much more gracefully on the floating island across from him.

And there is Jessamine. Cold and dead and bloody and too real. The note on the ground beside her is-- cruel, taunting, too much. _YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER--_

He suppresses a sob and Blinks as far away from there as possible. It is a blur until the Outsider appears before him again, and he startles Corvo out of the blind grief that was propelling him through the void.

“In the days to come, your trials will be great, Corvo.” The way the Outsider says his name makes Corvo shiver. He doesn’t know why. He’s full of anger and betrayal and confusion and sadness; so many emotions that are hard to pin down, that threaten to overwhelm him and yet seem so far away at the same time. He settles for glaring as harshly as he can, only half listening as the Outsider explains runes and bonecharms and shrines, all things he really could not care less about right now, even if he tried. This is all so sudden and uncalled for; showing up out of the blue, now that his life has taken such a nasty turn, and showing him _that_. It hurts. It makes his stomach twist and turn with restrained anger and sadness. So he is extremely startled when a heart appears in his hand, heavy and fleshy and devoid of blood and full of metal and--

_This place is the end of all things, and the beginning._

It’s her voice. It’s _her heart_.

He cannot hope to suppress the sobs that bubble up from his throat. It is too much. _This_ , on top of _everything_ , is too much.

 

* * *

 

When he can feel himself fading from the void -- waking up, he assumes -- he tucks the heart and the newly acquired rune into his pocket and asks a simple question, the only one he can make himself ask.

_Why?_

The Outsider does not answer.

When Corvo awakens again, he is tangled in his bedsheets, back in the Hounds Pit. He’s drenched in sweat, his chest heaves as if he has been drowning. He thinks, for the briefest of moments, that it was all a terrible dream. But then he feels the weight in his jacket and sees the Mark on his hand and he knows. He understands. He cries, once again.

 

* * *

 

He moves through the city like a ghost. He completes his missions with as little bloodshed as possible. He finds ways to be rid of his targets in methods other than the cold blooded murder the Loyalists suggest, even if they deserve death over and over until they fully understand the consequences of their actions. Jessamine’s death has affected the city in more ways than he’d ever expected. She was the only one holding the city together. It’s all so hard to take in. Everything still feels the slightest bit fake. But dreams aren’t like this, unless he finds himself in the void.

If the Outsider expects him to say anything to him when he appears at the shrines to give his little bits of cryptic clues about the mission at hand, then he is very good at hiding it. That is, until he is not.

Corvo has no intentions of speaking to his once-companion. Not now and not ever, as far as he’s concerned. All the times he’d spent curled up around that piece of glass, talking the hours away, or merely laying in silence, comforted in the knowledge that he had someone always there for him -- all those times, was it just a game? Was the Outsider just watching to see which road his life went down, got bored, then grew interested again only when Corvo’s life took the worst turn imaginable? He can’t think of any other reason his actions, for the sudden appearance after years of nothing. All that time, he’d thought he’d done something very wrong to turn the Outsider away. He was someone Corvo relied on, a friend ( _something more_ ). Corvo isn’t sure if he should feel hurt anymore. It’s just a bitterness (and an underlying feeling of being _special_ enough for the Outsider to take notice of him again, to grant him these powers, to help him get this broken empire back on track, and he’s angry at himself for feeling this way). A bitterness lodged deep in his chest that refuses to dissipate. All of the special attention and the approving smiles and the indirect compliments and lingering touches in his dreams, it makes him more bitter, makes it hard to understand what could possibly to going on inside the deity’s mind.

It’s only after he deals with Daud and his group of assassins, does the Outsider speak with the intention of getting Corvo to respond with more than just glares and grimaces.

Corvo is still weak and shaken from the poison wrecking his body and he takes a moment to rest his aching legs, slumping against the wall near a shrine. There is no one around to spot him. He can afford a few minutes of rest, he thinks. Just a few minutes. Then he’ll be back on his feet, back to the Hounds Pit. The best chance he’s got of tracking down Emily. He will save her, he will punish those who betrayed him and place Emily back on her rightful throne. He just needs a break.

As he drinks down some of the bitter elixir he’d snagged from a nearby shelf, the space around him goes fuzzy and murky around the edges. The air smells of sea salt, the whale oil lamps casting long shadows against the walls and splintered floorboards. The Outsider appears before him in a rush of ash, hands clasped behind his back. He does not smile. Corvo only stares at him with tired eyes and greets him with, _What?_

“I must apologize,” he starts. Corvo’s eyebrows raise. “For Daud. It was quite a show. I’m surprised you let the man who murdered your beloved Empress go. But still,” his mouth pulls down in a frown. Corvo isn’t entirely sure where he’s getting at and simply watches, still sipping from the elixir vial. “Daud is… difficult. He used to be someone important to me, but no longer.”

Corvo’s eyebrows shoot up even farther. The Outsider continues, “He will leave Dunwall soon, in a matter of days, and you will never see him or his whalers again. Nevertheless, I do apologize. For all the trouble he’s caused you.”

Corvo can’t believe what he’s hearing. _Wait,_ he signs abruptly. _Wait. What are you saying, exactly?_

The Outsider tilts his head, fixing Corvo with a questioning stare.

_Daud -- he’s Marked, I know that, but was he -- did you do… this? Whatever you’ve been doing with me, you did it with him too? All of this?_

“In a way.”

_And what? You grew tired of him and sought out someone new?_

The Outsider does not answer, and Corvo knows he’s right. He feels angry and lost; all this time, was he just a replacement for someone else? Someone the Outsider held dearly but messed up in some way, just as Corvo somehow must have a lifetime ago, and now he’s fixed his gaze on Corvo because he’s interesting again? His previous theories have been true this entire time and Corvo can’t push away the sharp stab of pain in his chest.

 _I’m not some replacement_. His signs are jerky, more bitterness in his movements than he intends for. _I considered you a friend, once. Maybe even more than that. But you left and only came back after all_ this _. And now you’re telling me you did this whole dance with someone else, and you tossed him aside when he didn’t catch your eye anymore. What do you expect me to say? That it’s okay? It’s been so long and you’ve never once ever found the decency to -- to talk to me. A normal conversation. An explanation. Am I just something you’re going to keep around for the next new years until I become too boring for you too? I just don’t understand_ why-- He breaks off, curling his fingers into a fist, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He wishes this wasn’t happening.

The silence stretches thin, until Corvo thinks the Outsider has just left again. Not in the mood to deal with Corvo’s pathetic display. It is not very interesting at all to watch someone near tears, grasping at straws for something that may have never been there in the first place. What they had before, it must have just been his imagination getting the best of him. _The Outsider_ , of all people, a being that seems to relish in the chaos of the world, would never consider him a companion, of any sort. None of that helps him feel any better. He brings his knees up and wraps his arms around his legs, resting his head against them. He is so _exhausted_. He has been since he left Coldridge. Since the all-consumable rage boiled down into a simmering well of unpleasant emotions and he was left to huddle and bleed on the rough stone floors of his prison cell. He wants all of this to be over and done with. He wants it to have never happened. He wishes he could go back, get home even earlier, set up defenses, make sure Jessamine and Emily are safe, stop Daud, stop Burrows and Campbell before the assassination even takes place. He wishes he never went on that stupid voyage around the isles. It was only a ploy to get him away from Jessamine so they could set their plan in motion. Corvo’s head aches with the amount of thoughts swirling around and slamming themselves around his brain.

Cold hands cup the side of his face and Corvo startles, bringing his head up and coming face to face with the Outsider, those impossible black eyes staring deep into his, his brow creased with… something. Concern? Worry? Corvo doesn’t understand.

The Outsider struggles for words. He may not even understand what is happening and what has happened, then and now. “You are not a replacement,” he starts, still touching Corvo’s face. “I have always found something special about you.”

Corvo makes a sound that may be a laugh, may be the beginnings of a sob. He tries to move his head but the Outsider holds him steady.

 _No_ , he signs, and for his credit, his hand only shakes slightly.

“Yes. You are much different from Daud, from any of my Marked. You have always--”

_No! Don’t lie to me. Once I came to Dunwall, you left. Was I not exciting enough for you then? Am I only exciting for you when my life is falling apart? I understand my life at the palace wasn’t the most exciting but you didn’t even-- And why did you-- Jessamine, the note, her heart--_

The Outsider frowns, at a loss. “I hadn’t meant for--” He breaks off, almost frustrated. He hadn’t even considered his actions could have such a negative effect on Corvo. “I had my reasons for not coming around then.”

_Did you know?_

“Know?”

_Did you know. This would happen? All of this, did you know?_

“Yes,” the Outsider says without missing a beat. “It is incredibly rare for this to _not_ happen. It’s nearly a constant. It is how things are supposed to go.”

_Could you have stopped it?_

The Outsider stares at him. Corvo continues, _You’re the Outsider. You’re a god. Could you have stopped it if you wanted to?_

“I am not that type of god, Corvo. I do not intervene.” His voice is quiet. Corvo feels himself slump against the wall, exhaling deeply. They aren’t getting anywhere. If Corvo didn’t know time had stopped, he would push the Outsider off him and continue on his way towards Emily before anything else happened to her. There is no reason to hurry anywhere when time is paused. He is too tired.

_Please, leave me alone. I didn’t ask for this._

“I only,” the Outsider frowns, a puzzled expression crossing his face. Then frustrated and something more than Corvo can make out. It’s gone before he can even hope to decipher it anyway. “You are special to me. Have I not made that clear?”

 _How can you not understand?_ Corvo shoots back, bewildered. He actually does laugh this time, a tiny broken sound. _I hadn’t seen you for years and you never explained why. You were all I had. And you left. And I still don’t understand why. If I’d always been interesting, then…_

“You had Jessamine,” he says simply, as if the answer is so very obvious and Corvo should have seen. He should have, perhaps. Neither of them say anything for several long moments as Corvo’s exhausted brain slowly pieces the picture together. When it clicks into place, it’s his turn to look puzzled.

 _I didn’t stop caring for you because I had Jessamine_ , he signs carefully, pushing away thoughts like _love_ and _cherish_. He doesn’t think he can say those words, not now. But perhaps the Outsider already knows, though he says nothing, gives nothing away but a soft sadness to the way he frowns, the way his eyes catch the glow of the lamps.

 _Did you think…_ Corvo isn’t sure how to word what he wants to say. He wiggles his fingers a little as he thinks. _My feelings for you ended once Jessamine and I…?_

The Outsider stares at him, uncomfortable.

 _You did._ He feels terrible suddenly. All of this mess, the ghosting, the weird almost taunts and whatever the fuck has even been happening, as all been because of some miscommunication? _I’m sorry. It never even crossed my mind to speak to you about it. I thought you’d just… gotten tired of me. Of what I was doing._

The Outsider drops his hands and looks away, glaring at the floor. The silence is heavy and uncomfortable. Corvo adds in _it doesn’t make up for showing me that horrible display before_ and _why didn’t you just tell me?_ before the Outsider looks back at him, and Corvo starts repeating what’d he signed in case the Outsider didn’t see, but he closes his pale, dead hands over Corvo’s and stares, cautious, careful, still uncomfortable, regretful. He can’t find the words to express what he means, and Corvo sympathizes, though his head is still reeling from everything and he can’t offer anything right now, his hands trapped.

“There are few versions of your life that I interact with you before you make it to the Hounds Pit,” he starts, lost and unsure. “I wanted to see what would happen. I did not anticipate… my, reaction. To be so.” He grimaces. “I did not know what to say. It is written in history, you and Jessamine. I didn’t expect it to feel quite that way. So I withdrew and returned when you truly needed my help.

“I do regret, and I… apologize.”

There are a lot of unspoken words. Corvo listens carefully and tries to pick them out, tries to read the Outsider’s expression and read his tone. It is much easier to do so on someone else, as opposed to himself. Even though the Outsider is generally very hard to read, and Corvo has never seen him so subdued before. There is a sense of _I don’t want to lose you_ and _I don’t exactly know where I went wrong_ and _this is very hard for me and I do not know what I’m doing._ Corvo understands. His heart is still hurting and he is still exhausted and he wants to sleep for a million, billion years, but he understands.

He gently tugs his hands and the Outsider releases him. He places his hand on the Outsider’s cheek and signs with his free hand, albeit awkwardly, _There’s been a misunderstanding._

The Outsider nods. He is surprised by the touch. Being touched by someone (as opposed to him doing the touching) is a very foreign thing to him, Corvo realizes. There is nothing in the void but whales and rushing upside-down water.

_We need to communicate for anything to work._

The Outsider nods again, looking a lot more tired than Corvo has ever seen him. He didn’t think the Outsider _could_ be tired. Perhaps even gods are weighed down by the push and pull of life.

 

* * *

 

It starts off rocky. Corvo’s very soul is damaged by the trauma of six months and one week of tragedies. But he is healing. Emily makes sure of it. He loves her dearly and she loves him. She wants to see him happy. She wants him always by her side, never apart from her again. He can’t imagine what this all has done to her. All he can do is stay close to her, ever vigilant, ever on edge that some masked assassin will crash in through the windows and take Emily even farther away, to a place he cannot reach. It plagues his dreams. His only salvation comes in the form of cold hands and deep dark eyes.

They are making progress. Everyone is. The city, the citizens, Emily, The Outsider, and himself. He supposes he should allow himself to feel a little proud. His daughter knitting the city together, rebuilding a city ravaged by the plague, making sure everyone receives the cure, receives vaccines. She does away with the music boxes after seeing how much pain they cause Corvo, the sweat collecting on his brow and the way his legs shook and threatened to give out from underneath him indication enough of how torturous that music was. It concerned him deeply, he remembers, once when he was speaking privately to the Outsider, away from everyone and looking down at the courtyard where Emily played with her friend, Alexi Mayhew, when he heard the awful clanking of the music box as an overseer passed by Emily and Alexi. He was testing the box, nothing malicious about the action, as he patrolled the grounds with a guard. The Outsider had cringed, making a strangled pained noise, and vanished. Corvo had pulled himself away from the window, staggering down the hall until he could no longer hear the blood rushing in his ears, no longer feel as though his soul was being ripped from his body. The Outsider had not returned even after Corvo had recovered and he was safely in his room. Corvo was left fretting until the next night. So he is very grateful to his little daughter for getting rid of the music boxes. He finds delight in watching them burn.

The Outsider doesn’t seem to know much in the way of feelings, romantic or otherwise, despite claiming to have been in a previous relationship with Daud ( _really, though? Daud?_ he’d signed, and the Outsider just narrowed his eyes). He doesn’t know what type of person Daud is, but whatever kind of relationship they had between them, it’s nothing like the one he and the Outsider have now. Corvo relies on communication. He welcomes touch during the right moments. He has had previous experience, obviously, and enjoys the sensual side of a relationship, the touching and the kissing and laying together, being together, _loving_ each other.

It goes very slow.

The Outsider still seems to tiptoe around certain subjects. There are times when he doesn’t give Corvo any answer at all, even turns his head away when Corvo is signing (even though Corvo knows that the Outsider sees it anyway, he sees almost everything). And there are times when Corvo is not very communicative either, when every touch reminds him of his months in Coldridge and he can barely suppress his flinches when Emily brushes against him or someone gets too close. On those days, the Outsider stays with him but does not touch. They both have a lot to work through, but it is okay.

“I wasn’t always the Outsider,” he is explaining one night, sitting cross legged across from Corvo on his bed. His shirt is off and in the moonlight, the Outsider’s skin looks almost translucent.

Corvo raises an eyebrow, questioning. _What do you mean?_

“It was a very long time ago. The only memory I have left of when I was human.” And what the Outsider recounts is so terrible that Corvo can’t bear to hear the end of it, but he lets the Outsider continue until the very end, shuddering at the descriptions the Outsider gives of having his throat slashed, the blood draining out until he was nothing, and then everything. A god of the void.

Corvo pulls the Outsider close, turning him so his back is pressed against Corvo’s broad chest. He is cold, as he always is, and Corvo hugs him closer as if he thinks he can share some of his body heat (he cannot).

_You didn’t deserve that. I’m so sorry._

The Outsider shrugs and remains quiet for a time. When he speaks again, his voice is not sad. “Perhaps. But had it not happened, there would be no chance of me ever meeting you.”

Corvo grunts, frowning. _I am not worth you being murdered._

“You misunderstand. I’m just saying …” he tries to find the appropriate words. It’s something they’re still working on. Corvo gives him time. He has the same issue, though not as bad. “Meeting you would have been impossible otherwise. So I can’t say the outcome was completely bad.”

Corvo hums in reply, his cheeks burning. He rubs gentle circles on the Outsider’s chest and presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> corvo and the outsider are implied to have alexithymia, an inability to express, describe or identify one's emotions.
> 
> i still don't know how to write the outsider.


End file.
